


Audience Participation

by night_reveals



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Anal Sex, Caretaking, Common Cold, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-10
Updated: 2011-03-08
Packaged: 2017-10-25 15:59:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/night_reveals/pseuds/night_reveals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years of dating Arthur has taught Eames to keep his hands to himself. When Arthur suddenly gets sick and touch-starved, Eames gleefully takes the chance provided to cuddle and snuggle as much as he wants. But all maladies end and eventually Arthur snaps back to his old ways; Eames finds it much harder to regress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **beta:** eternalsojourn  
>  inspired by this [prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/13659.html?thread=30538843#t30538843).  
> the first full story I ever wrote.

Naked, Arthur bends over the hotel bed, folding in half perfunctorily but smoothly. His lean arms snake back to reach behind himself, to dig his nails into his ass for a teasing moment before he deliberately opens it up, globes parting like the beginning of a play. The lube that's been stuffed up Arthur for twenty hours now is still shiny around the creased opening, slowly leaking out only to be swirled into the tiny soft hairs around Arthur's balls. It drips down his cock in a heart-stopping voyage of discovery that traces a vein before plopping onto the floor in a nasty first Act.

If Eames were a good man, a better man, hell, a half-decent man, he'd put an end to this. He'd say _We can't, you haven't slept for_ days _, there's always the morning_ but he isn't good or half-decent. Eames is simply a smitten audience member in Arthur's playhouse, thoughts and feelings dictated by its only cast member -- who happens to be a tyrant, an absolute tyrant. Arthur may be the one bent over but he still holds Eames' strings tight in hand, and right now every fucking one of them is wrenching Eames to that bed.

Even if Eames knew where to find scissors he would never cut anything connecting him to Arthur. So he goes.

What a fate.

~

"Hold that ass open further," whispers Eames, voice rough, something like glass caught in his throat and eyes wild with exhaustion or abandon. On the bed Arthur groans and complies, hands distending his little hole even further, one finger from his right and one finger from his left pulling like little hooks around the edge. The inside winks up at the room, pink around the edges except where it's white from Arthur's fingers destroying it, a dark red in the middle and then black in the center, ready for Eames. "God, yes, Arthur. Give me a target," murmurs Eames, shedding clothes and stalking nearer, heavy breath belying his playful tone.

He stretches a hand out to caress or pinch or slap but he stills right above Arthur's back, history telling him it's the wrong move. Touching isn't his role in this Act; he still has lines to deliver.

"I know you stretched yourself in that bathroom, Arthur. How many fingers did you use? How many'd you force up that hole, trying to get ready for me?" he says with his voice sculpted to degrade, to bite chunks out of the man beneath him, and it does its job well. Arthur stutter-breathes, trying to keep those finger-hooks in place even as they slide inevitably out on the dirty slick flow of lube. Eames notices and bends over Arthur, covering his body without touching at any point, thick arms placed to the sides of Arthur's head -- still slammed into the coverlet of the bed.

"Turn your head around, my sweet," orders Eames in a voice that's anything but.

Arthur takes a trio of breaths and then does, haltingly, the sweat from his forehead leaving an obscene smear on the expensive covers beneath him. His eyes flutter as sweat invades them, then track upwards to Eames' face, a begging, beseeching look turning Arthur's face into a slut's. Eames locks eyes and says, low,

"Keep your hole open for me, beautiful. I need to know where you want it,"

And fucking finally Arthur breaks, Eames sees it in his dazed eyes and senses Arthur's arms tense up, can tell Arthur has just viciously pried himself apart as far as he can go without a cock to hold him open by the moisture in his eyes -- could be sweat, tears -- doesn't matter, really.

"There we are, very good," praises Eames, breath a hot rush so strong Arthur's eyelashes flutter. "Now, what is it we want?"

Beneath him Arthur stares up at Eames, eyes so wet with sweat and tears he probably can't even see in front of him, the tramp, and begs, "You, Eames, goddamn you, you know I want you--"

"What part of me, exactly?"

And this is the climax to Arthur's little performance, his audience on tenterhooks, slain by the action on stage and praying for more in their soaked seats. Above him Eames trembles, thanking all the gods of the land that Arthur's gaze is too misty to see, his brain too high on fucking to register anything but the closeness of Eames'--

"---cock, your cock, please I want it you know I do---", blathers Arthur, undone at last and beautiful in his shame and abasement, star of any and all shows.

Eames obliges, letting his prick finally nudge its hole, hitting lube-coated fingers on the way in but only pushing the rubber band edge enough to pass to the dark red, testing the give of Arthur's ass. Eames is so hard he doesn't need anything to guide him in, and Arthur is so needy, so wanton he finally hoarsely yells, "Fuck me! God please" and Eames does.

~

Arthur sprawls out a foot away, body loose, eyes closed as he inhales and exhales to a beat only he hears. Eames knows what would happen if he were directing any of this, his dream of pulling Arthur in, holding him while gentling his wet body and bestowing kisses taunting him for a maddening second before he remembers he's just the audience and not an actor. He leans in for one last kiss and flighty caress down Arthur's side -- the echoing applause for the show he's just been gifted. Arthur has enough energy to open his eyes and glare at Eames for this intrusion onto his stage, but Eames can hardly feel guilty.

"Need a shower," says Arthur, blandly, and swings himself out of bed.

"What you need is sleep," says Eames, perhaps a bit more harshly than normal.

There's no reply but the soft click of the bathroom door behind Arthur.

~

Eames startles awake to a pitch-dark room, black-out curtains still up over the windows but the sun fighting to get through, tracing a bright outline at the edges. There's a man, naked, laying half on top of him, and Eames' brain races in quick confusion and terror while his finger twitches longingly for the gun he's got stashed somewhere near.

_Where is Arthur?_ , his harried brain immediately fixates on his erstwhile lover.

The body above his moans thickly and Eames, who hasn't moved anyway, goes into complete rigor mortis.

That voice is not Arthur's. It's nasally, for one. For two, Arthur doesn't make noise in the morning -- his fucking chi or something is disturbed if anyone speaks before 1 PM and he hasn't had coffee. Eames knows this for a fact because he's had lots of dead-silent wakenings. For three, Eames has woken next to Arthur hundreds of times (not to brag) in the past two years and never not once no-sir-ee has Arthur been touching his body in any way. There was one time, actually their year-anniversary, when they'd both been wholly smashed on gold-foil sake and Arthur had fallen asleep nose-to-nose with Eames. To Eames it's a well-loved memory, dredged up and relived often, details hazy from so many rememberings.

Following the moan comes a quick series of wet coughs and a reedy, "Eames?"

The man in question jerks, a corpse coming to life, and quickly shoves the body covering his to the side only to shoot up out of the bed. Eames can't rightly see the face of the person who's lying there and the windows are all the way across the room so Eames grabs the first thing that comes to mind: his cellphone. Feeling caught-out he punches a button and holds the glowing, weak light up to roughly where he thinks the sick mystery man's face will be.

And fuck him good.

It's Arthur.

~

Five minutes later it's still true. With the lights turned on their lowest setting Eames can contemplate the body draped over his sheets, a study in contrast and chiaroscuro if he's ever seen one. It turns out the coughing and pleading for Eames was dreamland babble-speak; Arthur is still asleep, face ruddy and nose running snot down the side of his face to the bed, pooling beneath him.

It's probably the most sublime, rapturous, paradisaical thing Eames has ever seen and that's counting his $3.8 million jackpot in Vegas five years ago when he'd been thread-bare poor.

It's because, in all their time together -- from muddled misunderstandings in the beginning, heinous fighting in the middle, to some sort of happiness now -- Eames has never had the chance to really contemplate Arthur. Always aware and ready, Arthur can sleep all day left undisturbed but as soon as the weight of eyes rest heavy on him he awakens to push the pressure away.

The time Eames spends sitting at Arthur's bed is a revelation in beauty, like a thirsty man stumbling across an oasis and drinking past his fill, his stomach bulging with happiness and yet unsated as the memory of the barren Sahara still haunts him. Eames knows others may think his musing extravagant or perhaps even histrionic, but they've never had perfection in their beds for years but been unable to look upon it.

Well, even Eames can admit that last bit might be a bit much. After all, Arthur is blowing snot onto the bed as Eames watches. So perhaps only nearly-perfect.

If Arthur really is sick, Eames must work fast. It's never happened before so he doesn't know what to expect and must anticipate any situation -- which of course means calling him mother, who strangely still knows more than her son about the most important things in life.

~

A quarter hour later, Eames has a hand-written list in hand (... _medicine, tissues, comfort food, eye covering..._ ) and leaves a note on the bedside table in case Arthur awakes, though left alone he should easily sleep till noon. In a last fit of affection Eames goes to the WC, tears off some toilet paper and mops up Arthur's face, trying to clean him off even though Eames loves this unpristine, uncontrolled scene.

Finishing his self-delegated job Eames reconciles himself to going to hunt. And forage. And buy.

Vagabond that he is, he snaps a sneaky picture with his cell phone right before he leaves.

~

Arthur awakes alone in a dark room.

His brain feels two sizes too big for his skull, pressing up against unforgiving bone and letting him know it is not fucking happy. Arthur bit-by-bit moves his head and -- ugh, what is this wet stuff underneath him? It only takes a second to realize it's snot and sweat. Arthur can't help the groan of hate and pure revilement.

Absolutely disgusting.

~

He's curled in his race car bed with a tummy ache. Earlier mommy made him take Tums to settle him down but now his head is as hot as the burning skillets dad once used. He fists his hands together, trying not to cry more about how his tummy hurts so bad.

He's dying.

Mommy comes in and he asks her, voice as low and quiet as a four-year-old's will go, _Mommy, am I going to die?_

And she laughs, not cruelly but softly like she's charmed, and says _No, Arty, I would never let that happen_ and suddenly Arthur feels better, knowing that his mommy will save him. _Would you like me to hold you?_ she asks, brushing his hair back. It's half question, half rare offer, and Arthur finds himself held through the night, cocooned safely in a loving fortress.

~

Eames comes back saddled with bags to Arthur awake and staring at the door, flushed and glassy-eyed.

"Morning," Eames whispers from the entrance, apologetic.

Arthur sniffs, not crying but trying to keep from dripping. He looks awful, wan except for high points of red at his cheeks and nose, eyes at half-mast from the obvious pain he's in, limbs shaking with infinitesimal tremors every other second. His lithe, naked form is smack in the middle of the bed, bottom half hidden beneath flimsy covers while his top half remains open for viewing, chest flushed and nipples raised. Ravished may be a good word to describe him, if that weren't impossible; Eames has worn a cock ring and fucked Arthur for three whole hours (well, he'd pulled out a few times) and Arthur'd had only needed ten minutes in the bathroom to put himself back together.

But now he's. Vulnerable. From the door Eames is struck dumb, throat parched even as his belly fills with happiness from a certain oasis. His dick must like the sight of Arthur waiting naked and exposed -- assailable -- in his bed, too, because he's fucking diamond-hard in literally half a minute.

_Chicken noodle soup chicken noodle soup chicken noodle soup_ he chants his mother's words to himself inanely.

Interrupting Eames' very important mantra Arthur glares and mumbles, "Where the hell were you?" He's wearing a frown, the face he puts on when he's angry, but his voice is so wet and lethargic and plaintive that instead of those words provoking anger in Eames (as they usually most definitively would) they bring out a completely different emotion, an unexpected guest in Eames' chest.

"Getting supplies." Eames swallows his strange feelings and walks to the bed, dragging Kleenex out for Arthur. Arthur grabs the whole box with one hand and rips them open, suddenly turned into an over-excited predator at a kill, and pulls out the snowy white tissue like they're the most delicious innards.

Just when Eames turns to go, maybe make some damn chicken noodle soup before he pokes the sick man's eye out, Arthur's hand hits whip-fast around Eames' wrist to hold firmly. Eames startles and looks down at Arthur on the bed, perplexed but unwilling to show it.

The thing is that every action Arthur takes with his body has a corollary, a meaning, a driving force behind it and a purpose in front of it. He'll misuse weapons, waste bullets, gleefully drop bombs on cities (that last one only in dreams, so far) but when it comes to his flesh and blood, the tendons and muscles that make him up, Arthur never misuses, is never wasteful, and -- though it hurts Eames' pride to admit -- never gleeful, either. So Eames waits, wondering what this could possibly be.

It's perhaps five long, silent minutes later, Eames still standing at the edge of the bed roped to Arthur, when he finally sits down. "What's this about then, pet?" asks Eames, voice neutral but heart racing in alarm.

Arthur has amassed used white tissue before him and instead of Eames' face -- very gorgeous, thank you -- he's looking at the small mountain like it's fucking Everest, which coincidentally is not one of Eames' favorite places.

Eames the audience member is reeling inside, scrabbling for the program underneath his seat to try to find what Act this is but he's lost in blank pages.

Just as Eames is about to demand to know what's wrong, Arthur wavers back and forth, eyes flicking from Eames' eyes to his hand to his eyes to his hand back to his eyes and even Eames is dizzy now, but then he's nuzzling, _nuzzling_ , into Eames' throat. He's still holding Eames' wrist like he's petrified Eames will break the hold to leave and Eames can't even follow that thought because he's got Arthur's nose gingerly brushing against his clavicle just like he hasn't dreamed of for maybe not two years.

The hand that isn't in Arthur-handcuffs reaches into his pants and fingers his chip, reminding him that this isn't a fantasy.

"Come here, my sweet," says Eames in a voice that is sweetness itself. He carefully unwraps Arthur's hold, tucks Arthur's full, naked body against his own clothed one. Eames tries to catch Arthur's eyes with his own but it's like pinning down smoke and he gives up, content to curl up and breath together.

~

It's eight months after the inception job and six months into this thing, this thing between Eames and him that Arthur can't name yet and so doesn't think about often. Eames lands at the Dallas airport at 3 AM, looking around in practiced disdain at the Texas scenery and bulging waistlines of the locals working the baggage claim.

“I heard everything is bigger in Texas,” he sniffs, hoisting his own luggage up.

Arthur, dressed in dark jeans and a soft gray cardigan, graces Eames with half a dimple. “Don't besmirch my hometown,” he replies, unthinkingly.

A foot away Eames goes suddenly still, his face caught in surprise. Arthur almost hits himself, fucking stupid to tell Eames that --

“You've done an admirable job of keeping that out of the press. Even an intrepid journalist such as myself couldn't find out that little gem,” and now Eames is staring at him with the light of discovery and something softer in his eyes so Arthur has to look away.

“I thought it wise to keep it to myself,” explains Arthur.

What he can't explain, to himself or anyone else, is why he just volunteered that valuable information to a man he has been fucking for the last six months.

Eames gracefully doesn't push the issue.

~

"Eames," whispers Arthur next to him.

Eames _hmms_ in question.

"My head really," Arthur coughs, "really hurts. Pain killers?"

Eames wants to do lots of things. He wants to mention how cute it is that usually eloquent, articulate Arthur can't bring himself to make a full sentence. He wants to point out that Arthur is being held and not dying of some communicable Eames-disease. He wants to force feed Arthur the slightly less legal pain killers Arthur knows they have instead of the relying on the over-the-counter crap.

Instead of any of these things he loosens his hold slightly and reaches for the side of the bed where he's placed the bags.

This exact moment is when the strangest thing to ever happen to a man named Eames happens.

At the second Eames' left arm loosens from around him, Arthur mewls.

Yes, mewls. Like a kitten, like one of those insufferably cute animals covered in fur and blind for weeks after birth that capture the hearts of humans and mice alike.

Yes, Arthur, the man who's blown up buildings and murdered and fucked Eames hard enough to break a bed before and maybe Eames' ass a little too.

Eames freezes.

Arthur snuggles closer, unaware of the distress so plainly writ across Eames' face. Slowly, oh so slowly, Eames continues his reach down to the bags, careful to keep pressure against Arthur at all times because if he hears that sound again his brain and carefully cultivated world-view may shatter into a thousand tiny pieces.

Two pills in hand he drags himself back to Arthur's side, ready to hand over his bounty.

"Arthur?"

Eames jostles the body next to his slightly but the only reaction he receives is Arthur rubbing his naked leg between Eames' clothed thighs. Eames really, really wants some water because the air in this room is criminally dry.

Pushed beyond any man's reasonable bounds, Eames comes to a risky decision.

In some circles Eames is infamous as a gambler. The ebb and flow of coin exchanging hands at the throw of a die or the deal of cards has never bothered Eames. He's a man who's been filthy rich and dirt-floor poor all in the same year and he can handle wagering his money, jewelry, even his own life. But he won't, can't gamble with the people he...cares about. And he never purposefully gambles with their feelings for him, either, which is why what he does next is unprecedented. Indeed, the last time he tried using this word (not knowing he was gambling) he ended up with a bloody nose and chasing Arthur around for a month in China and Nepal trying to convince Arthur that Eames didn't consider him a child or weakling.

Hesitantly Eames leans in to the curl of Arthur's ear.

"Baby?"

His heart rate really shouldn't be this fast for four letters.

Next to him Arthur continues sleeping, missing his entrance as aggrieved party.

~

They're penniless and hiking down the streets of a large village along the China-Nepal border, trying to find a place for the night that'll take credit card. Eames stomps along projecting his pure unhappiness with every heavy drop of his boots.

“I say a simple 'baby' and you punch me. It was a complete overreaction to one word – and I think you broke my nose,” he seethes.

Arthur looks over to Eames' face. “I can inspect it,” he offers.

Eames turns sideways to glare at Arthur. “I need to walk around. I'll find you later.”

After Eames's left in a huff, Arthur meanders for hours, eventually stumbling on a spice stall. The shopkeeper has got coffee and tea but Arthur doesn't have money or a watch to barter, only a very expensive, Italian silk handcrafted tie (a gift from his grandfather) that happens to be worth nothing in a town where dozens of silk makers reside.

Without even thinking about why and disregarding the fact that he hasn't had coffee in a week or more, Arthur takes off his tie to hand it over for the tea.

If Eames happens to love tea it's a lucky coincidence.

~

This cold must truly be something, because Eames has never seen Arthur sleep during the day like this. Taking advantage of Arthur's loosening hold, Eames sneaks out of the bed to make them food and grab water bottles. On the way he plugs in Arthur's iPhone, knowing Arthur will want to check it as soon as he awakes from his sickness-inflicted stupor.

The hotel suite's half-kitchen is serviceable enough for chicken noodle soup and Eames almost doesn't hear the dash of footsteps over the boiling of water in front of him.

“All right?” he calls out.

The bathroom door slams shut.

~

A half-hour later Arthur walks out on unsteady legs, wet hair plastered to his forehead and wrapped in a white, fluffy robe.

“Dinner's ready,” informs Eames.

Arthur shuffles by without comment to the bedroom.

A few seconds later Eames hears a nasally, imperious voice order, “Bed.”

Smiling to himself, he grabs the bowls and spoons.

In a repeat of earlier Arthur, ensconces his lower half under blankets, his robe shrugged off to reveal a muscular shoulder as he drinks the soup. Finished, he hands his used bowl to Eames who gamely puts it on the dresser next to the bed, gleeful that Arthur has deigned to eat something prepared by him. Eames then makes Arthur drink three water bottles, surprising himself at his own insistence and forcefulness.

Sluggish and obviously aching all over, Arthur pulls off the white terry robe and slips his upper body under the covers to lay on his side. Eames watches the show from above, making sure Arthur isn't in any danger zone. The shower has taken the sick smell from his body and given him a bit of a shine but it's hardly enough to cover the fragility and little wet pants into the pillows, his eyes closed and brows drawn.

“Eames?”

“I'm here. Need anything?” he asks solicitously in a voice he's never been able to use with Arthur prior.

Arthur shakes his head, but to Eames it looks like Arthur's had heavy lead poured over his shoulders. Arthur groans out, “No. 'm cold.”

Worried, Eames yanks his jeans off and lifts the covers to get closer, press skin to skin – but Arthur is burning up, probably at least 38 degrees.

“You sure you're cold?' he asks, brushing a thumb across Arthur's closed eyes with one hand while the other wraps around Arthur's middle, pulling his body closer.

Arthur nods so slowly Eames barely can tell that's what it's supposed to be. A naked leg brushes against Eames' own and tries to bury itself between Eames' thighs, its push so weak Eames could be asleep and not notice it. As it is, he hesitantly lifts his leg to accommodate Arthur, their bristly leg hairs catching and twining together, lovers beneath the sheets. Throughout it all Arthur is quiet and blind to Eames' infatuated stare.

In a lightening bolt it hits Eames.

Arthur _wants to be held._

Arthur, who never kisses save as a prelude to sex, who never wants to sleep curled up with Eames, who directs their every touch with precision and meaning. Eames curses himself for not realizing it sooner, for not twining himself around Arthur every hour – this whole time he's been afraid Arthur will suddenly wake up and kick Eames out like a squatter, like an audience member stayed too long, but as long as Arthur stays sick Eames is safe to hold and pet as he pleases.

It's a beautiful revelation.

Eames starts by tracing sleeping Arthur's nose with his finger, an action he's wanted to carry-out for at least three years. It's kind of spongy at the end like angel-food cake so Eames pushes lightly against it, testing. Arthur's nose bends back to become pig-like and it's bewildering for Eames to realize Arthur can look so undignified. Sniggering to himself, Eames grabs his phone (careful to keep Arthur wrapped in his other arm) and snaps a picture.

~

When Eames next wakes it's to Arthur sucking at his nape, nipping and licking leisurely as his leg works higher and higher between Eames' thighs. Arthur's naked chest dips and rises to air kiss Eames' own with every movement, and below that Eames' cock is waking up to tawdrily drag against Arthur's hip in an eager _hello, how are_ you _today?_

Eames raises his hands to palm Arthur's ass, and the answer finally comes to his sex-fogged brain: not well. Arthur is not well today and his skin is still burning, setting Eames' palms ablaze.

A glance to the clock says it's 4 AM.

Upset and torn, Eames grabs Arthur's arms -- formerly twining themselves in Eames' hair – and growls, “You're sick.”

Arthur doesn't answer, just buries his head back to Eames' neck. Instead of going back to marking Eames he nudges around with his angel-food cake nose, letting his forearms be held tightly above his head while he plants himself down into Eames, a seed waiting for a chance to grow.

Eames knows that getting drunk before sex doesn't appeal to Arthur, but if it did Eames imagines this is what it would be like: fuzzy and inhibition-less, Arthur able to fib his lines in his play, never regretting letting Eames onto the stage. But Arthur doesn't do that.

“Just a finger,” Arthur begs, eyes still closed and rocking on top of Eames, shift of long, lean legs to Eames' side while his breath comes in puffs against Eames' full lips. It's a teasing sensation that makes Eames want to pin Arthur down roughly against the covers only to surprise him with soft kisses.

He could do it, if he wanted to. The man on top of him isn't exactly the Arthur he knows, after all, could hardly stop Eames from doing whatever he wanted. He could knot his hands in Arthur's hair and push him down to suck him off and gag prettily on Eames' thick cock. He could bend Arthur over the bed like they'd done the night before, put the bottle in the fridge then stuff chillingly cold lube up Arthur until he begged to be warmed up. He could lie on his front and order Arthur to fuck him slow like he never does, fuck Eames till he's satisfied Arthur is planted deep enough.

He could do anything to Arthur, and that is what makes him do nothing.

~

Much to Eames' amusement Sick Arthur still gets bored. He notices it first when Arthur begins twisting in their sheets around noon, fists clenched and jaw set. He still pushes himself back into Eames so Eames knows not to let go, but it becomes unbearable after a while.

“Settle down, Arthur,” chides Eames, tightening his arms to calm him.

It works for a minute.

“I need to work,” complains Arthur. He ruins it by having a coughing fit promptly after, hacking and sniffing away – Eames passes him tissues and Arthur takes them by the bunchful, predatory as usual.

Watching him clean up and glancing to the (now literal) mountain of Kleenex to the side of the bed Eames muses, “May have to go out and buy more of these soon.”

Eames almost misses it, but at the last second he notices Arthur conserve the tissue he's got, using each one individually instead of doing a mass assault as usual; it brings a smile to Eames' lips. Looks like Arthur is plotting to keep his caretaker around for a while longer.

Eames wisely doesn't mention it, choosing to smile instead.

~

It's past six in the evening and Eames is drowsing, pinned tight between the curl of Arthur's blistering fingers and the solid bed beneath him, secure in the now but dreading the future. Eames' reckless enjoyment of Arthur in this stripped down state is slowly exchanging itself for uneasiness – the color has begun to return to Arthur's cheeks, his wan palor dripping away – and Eames knows that this intermission in Arthur's play is soon coming to an end.

Every small movement Arthur makes against him is a reminder of what Eames won't have too soon to think of: a warm face against his chest, the dig of sharp shoulder against his own, a casual sharing of life in breaths exchanged, happiness filling his belly before this oasis in the desert proves a mirage at last.

Unbearably sad and deliriously happy, Eames smiles.

~

The telephone wakes Arthur too early in the morning for it to be a good sign, the moon's reign still absolute and unchallenged by the sun.

Arthur listens to Cobb ( _they're coming for you, Arthur, you both need to get out of Nepal right now, fuck_ ) before waking Eames and packing swiftly, the darkness their royal patron as they flee for their lives.

It's only as they're on the plane out that Arthur realizes he left the tea next to the bed unopened, unseen, and unremarked.

~

The sickness encroaches on Arthur, tightening in what Eames hopes is its death rattle. Junior physician Eames had thought the return of color meant a return to health; now it seems it was only a deepening of the fever, and Eames can't help but let worry tinge his every movement as he shifts Arthur around on top of him, trying to keep him soothed. The fever has driven the cough away at last, however, and it is this fact alone that keeps Eames from overreacting and calling an ambulance, choosing instead to stuff as much water as is bearable into Arthur, helping him to the WC too many times to count.

On top of him Arthur holds his head up, which must take effort for he shakes with it, and says, voice barely there, “I can't do this anymore.”

Eames breathes, fear abruptly taking him over because it has come, the moment he's dreaded for too long, that he's kept tucked away and secret even from himself but that he can't hide deep anymore when faced with it so plainly -- Eames has overstepped his bounds. He opens his mouth, to argue or shout –

“I'm bored. I need to read something.”

Arthur collapses down back onto Eames and Eames' fear collapses back into himself, an effortless domino effect – and like that it's buried and happily forgotten.

“Well, let's get something, then.”

Minutes later the two men lounge stacked against each other, Eames on the pillow and Arthur in front of him resting on Eames' chest. Eames had offered to read aloud and Arthur's consent must mean he's in great pain or just delirium. The only book Arthur has on hand is a historical text and Eames resigns himself to being bored out of his mind as Arthur instructs him to the middle where a silk bookmark sits between pages.

“Although Sulh was a strong opponent of the mandate in Syria and Lebanon, he had maintained a distance from the Muslim unionists since the Congress of the Coast of 1928...,” begins Eames.

It is half-an-hour into the reading when Arthur moves his hand up to pull the book down from Eames' hands.

“What is it?”

“Eames,” says Arthur, quietly.

Apprehensive Eames bends forward to look at Arthur's profile questioningly. His cheeks are ruddy again, the worst Eames has seen yet, and Arthur's eyes seem fixed on some middle distance in front of the bed, open and unseeing.

Eames realizes he could have been reciting limericks this whole time for all Arthur would have noticed.

Finally finding what he was looking for across the room Arthur turns his head to look at Eames, at first hesitant but then direct.

“Tea,” he says.

Exceptionally confused Eames asks, “You want some?”

“In Nepal.”

Alarmed by this rambling Eames begins to think about how quickly an ambulance will get to their hotel if he calls now, which insurance cards and ID will be best to use, how he'll have to forge new things afterwards--

“I bought you tea. In Nepal,” Arthur finally gets out, eyelids drooping.

Eames snaps out of his panic and arches an eyebrow. “We didn't have money in Nepal. In fact, I very distinctly recall sleeping on top of hay one night with not a drop of tea in sight.”

Frustration with the stupidity that is Eames seems to overtake Arthur, and he frowns deeply. “No, I mean – I bartered. My tie. Then we left so fast I forgot it. Your tea.”

Arthur then looks away back to the middle space, a seeming contemplation of nothing as the tingle of warmth and happiness spreads to Eames' fingers and toes.

“It's just I was thinking, I should go back and get it,” Arthur murmurs nonsensically, eyes closing.

Later Eames falls asleep under Arthur, both of them blanketed by fever and crazy and maybe not a little bit of truth.

~

Groggily waking in the morning to hear the pitter-patter of running water from the shower, the easy movement of Arthur in the bathroom; seeing the iPhone missing from its charger, a cup of half-drunk coffee next to the bed – it's a shock back to reality, a harsh desertification of Eames' oasis.

It's only been two days, give or take a few hours, so Eames can't figure out why he feels two years older.

Soon enough Arthur walks out of the bathroom with steam trailing behind him. He looks good. Great, even. It hasn't been long enough for him to lose weight or muscle and by the end of the day he'll probably have all his color back, too.

Eames realizes he should be delighted – and he's glad Arthur isn't in pain, isn't feverish or miserable. But he can't help the vague pang of loss.

“I ordered breakfast for us,” says Arthur. His voice is pitch-perfect, controlled and beautiful.

From the bed Eames blinks and nods, rolling off the mattress to dress.

As Eames watches Arthur read the newspaper with no kiss good morning or hint of affection in sight he tries to reacclimate himself to this version of Arthur, the actor who controls himself so stiffly and follows his own lines letter-by-letter, perpetually dictating to his audience.

It's then that the breakfast tray comes. It's everything they both like: eggs and toast for Arthur, bacon and oatmeal for Eames. Arthur seems unhappy though, and he looks to the bell-hop and says _I ordered tea_. The bell hop looks at the spread and apologizes, leaving to get it. Arthur sits back down to begin devouring his food, obviously hungry, and Eames cleverly doesn't comment on Arthur's thoughtfulness.

But somewhere in-between Arthur raising his fork and taking a sip of coffee, something bold sprouts and begins to grow inside Eames, an idea or a vision planted in his nape by Arthur not even a day ago. Across the small table Eames thinks about gambling, how sometimes it might be worth it, how he's tired of sitting when he should be on stage with Arthur, how maybe the words he swallows so cleverly, so wisely, so gracefully are really just him, scared and unwilling to place a bet for fear he might lose.

Rolling with his intuition and unwilling to lose focus, Eames gets up to walk to Arthur's side. He gingerly pulls his chair over and crosses his legs to brush Arthur's beneath the table, innocent and bashful. Arthur immediately pulls his leg away and shoots a small glare to Eames.

Eames presses forward, and Arthur snaps, exasperated,

“What are you doing, Eames?”

“Just touching you,” replies Eames, going for bewildered. “We've been doing in a lot lately.”

Arthur almost flushes and says, as if it's the only acceptable excuse for touching, “I was sick.”

Expecting this reply, Eames overcomes the doubt inside and decides to lay his cards on the table, to jump up onto stage with Arthur and tear the script from his hand, to make something new,

“From now on I want to touch you, and not just when we're fucking.”

Arthur promptly gets up from the table and that's how Eames knows he's hit a nerve, for Arthur never runs if he can help it.

Eames is betting all-or-nothing so he gives chase, following Arthur into the kitchen because he's unwilling to let them go without a damned good fight.

~

When Arthur'd woken up this morning the last two days were a hazy memory, like the first time he went down with the PASIV and couldn't remember anything with much detail. Eames' brush against his leg brings it all back, the quiet hours spent wrapped around each other breathing the same air, and Arthur can't deal with that right now. He can't afford to lose himself.

“That's not me, Eames,” says Arthur dully while he cleans a cup, movements idle but body tense.

“You kissed Ariadne once, I know you did,” argues Eames, trying to find a way past Arthur's armor.

Arthur would be amused at this low-blow if he didn't feel Eames circling around him, waiting for a weakness. “She was nervous; I calmed her. Besides, she never actually meant anything to me,” he finishes, unthinkingly.

Across the kitchen Eames goes suddenly still, his face caught in an expression of surprise that Arthur saw once long ago in an airport in Texas. Arthur almost hits himself, fucking stupid to tell Eames that – and this is why Arthur can't do this, can't be with Eames, because Eames makes him weak in a dangerous world.

Anger swirls in Arthur, a belated defense to cover for his own fear. “I wish you would stop thinking that everyone likes to touch all the time. It's frankly unsavory.”

What Arthur doesn't know yet is that Eames has thrown away their script, and where once Eames would rise to the bait he now simply looks, contemplating Arthur.

“I know you want to touch, I know it now. What exactly are you afraid of, Arthur?”

If Arthur were given over to fits of hyperventilation he'd have one right now. As it is, his fingers only slightly tremble, the cup in his hands unsteady as he realizes Eames is going in for the kill, that Eames knows where his weakness is. Arthur turns his head back around to the sink and says nothing.

Eames recognizes that he could fold here, that he could apologize and everything would go back to normal. But Eames doesn't want normal, anymore, and can't force himself back into that desert so he makes one last gamble, his voice quiet but rock-steady.

“I want you. All the time. And if you think that – that you getting sick every two years so you can have an excuse to touch me is enough, I'm telling you right now it isn't. It's not enough anymore, Arthur, and I think you know that. I just – however much you think you want it, I want it more.” Eames swallows. “So you shouldn't worry about that,” he concludes lamely.

The fear Arthur's held close for years doesn't do anything so simple as dissipate into the air between them but Arthur feels a loosening inside him, a new strength filling him up with Eames' words.

Arthur turns around from the sink to look his weakness in the eye.

The die are taking too long to fall for Eames and so he strides to Arthur's side and his hand becomes a careful bracelet of fingers around Arthur's thin, strong wrist, not possession but invitation to something new, Eames finally jumping out of his theater seat to act.

The moment twists out before them, a million seconds and possibilities curving in the air, everything hinging on the light clasp of fingers between them.

Arthur looks away, but doesn't pull away, and the future changes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A coda to Audience Participation.

The things a man holds close to his heart describe him more thoroughly and depict him more truthfully than a million words or pictures could ever hope to do.

For one man it is his dog, comforting through marriage and divorce, the bottle and rehab, its furry head ever-faithful upon a knee. For another it is his child, cheery-eyed and loud, scribbling along the walls in perfect happiness. For another it is money, the green against his fingertips the feel of love, the things he buys a tribute to his own folly. But scratch just a smudge deeper to the bottommost layer, the layer so rarely thought of or mentioned to find the driving force behind most men: _fear._

For the man with the dog, closest to his heart is a fear of losing unconditional love. For the man with the child, a fear of a direction-less future. For the man with money, fear of his own decline and collapse. It is a very rare man that can say, can mean, _I hold you closest in my heart, above others, above myself, and above my fear_.

Eames and Arthur are exceptional men in many ways, but in this they are not yet an exception.

As Eames twines his hand slowly with Arthur's one night, their apartment hushed and dark around them, he begins to think of playhouses, and fear, and truth: how maybe the closest thing to his heart is finally right next to him, has been next to him for the last two years, will be touching him when he wakes up.

Eames, secure in the now and welcoming the future, smiles.


End file.
